The Villain is the Victim
by Black Fire
Summary: The Riddler's experience during Lock Up.  He and the Scarecrow talk about living in fear, and becoming the thing you always hated.
1. Chapter 1

Title: The Villain is the Victim

Author: weird_katharine

Rating: PG-13

Genera: Angst, Drama

Warning: Description of lobotomy.

Summary: The Riddler's experience during Lock Up. He and the Scarecrow talk about living in fear, and becoming the thing you always hated.

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any other recognizable characters.

It was late at night, and almost everyone was asleep. The light was gray like dark water. Everything lost its color in the gloom, and the quiet cells were filled with shadows. Scarecrow sat on his cot with his back pressed against the stone wall, studying his long, folded.

He looked up as he heard a cell door slam. A minute latter Bolton lumbered by, implacable as an icebreaker, dragging the Riddler behind him. Edward had his hands cuffed behind him, and he was being dragged a little too fast to be sure of his balance. He was protesting in a harsh whisper, outraged and frustrated, but not wanting to draw attention to his embarrassing situation. At this hour though, Crane was the only one to see him. He saw something else too, that he didn't think Edward had noticed yet. Bolton had something tucked into the back pocket of his work pants, and it defiantly wasn't a standard Arkham side-arm. It was sharp and metal, like a screwdriver, or maybe an awl. The Riddler was going bleed, and he probably had no idea how much trouble he was in. Most of the inmates didn't yet, but Crane did. Almost from the beginning, Bolton had gone right for him, letting him know he didn't care about hurting him.

They passed by without looking at Crane, and nothing else happened for a while.

When Bolton brought him back, Edward wasn't struggling anymore. He was pale, sweaty, and twitching. His eyes were dark, dilated, and almost bulging with terror. Even though he hated Bolton with every ounce of his being, Crane couldn't help but think, '_Nice work. Very nice.'_ He could tell Edward had been driven right to the edge. His body had released its whole supply of adrenalin in a situation where he couldn't fight back or escape. It would take hours just for his blood chemistry to return to normal. For his mind to be right again, it could be days, or it could be never. It was a beautiful thing.

Bolton locked him in his glass-fronted cell and left without saying a word. Edward was pacing back and forth rapidly in the confined space, running his hands through his hair.

"I – I really thought he was going to do it," He stammered to himself. "I really thought he was going to kill me!"

"Nonsense," Said Crane flatly.

Edward turned, glaring at him. "What?"

"Look at you, too scared to say it, even to yourself."

"What would you know about it anyway?" Edward folded his arms over his chest, trying to look superior and irritated, and maybe managing it for a moment, but then he transformed into a man simply holding himself in fear.

"There aren't many things more frightening than the dark ages of psychiatry, are there?"

The Riddler shut his mouth tight, and all expression vanished from his face. Crane saw his huge eyes, the whites showing too much, and his faint shaking. Oh yes, the immediate threat was over, but the nightmare was still happening.

"He didn't threaten to kill you. He threatened to give you a lobotomy." He paused and then decided to be magnanimous. "You shouldn't have believed him." He said condescendingly. "If he turned your brains into strawberry jam . . ."

Edward moaned, making the kind of low strangled sound that usually means someone is about to be sick.

"someone _would_ notice. Even in _this_ place. He wouldn't dare."

He finally found his voice. "Actually," he said bitterly, "he told me he was going to frame you for it. Quite a sensible plan too, considering how quickly your thoughts went in that direction."

All the fun suddenly went out of toying with Edward, and numbing hopelessness came over him. He remembered all over again how helpless they all were. Bolton could do it, he would dare, he could do anything he wanted.

"There was _nothing I could do_." His voice was horse and Crane could barely hear him. "I just went to pieces. I begged him, told him whatever he wanted to hear, so he wouldn't hurt me . . . that way."

"I know," Crane said wretchedly.

He guessed that like himself, Edward now found himself in a place he thought he had left far behind, a place he had fought tooth and nail to escape. The Riddler kept quiet about his past, but Crane couldn't imagine an intelligent, red-headed boy who liked puzzles more than people _not_ being bullied.

"He's dumber than a box of hammers and I begged him!" Edward's hands clenched into fists against the glass.

"Be quiet," Crane hissed. " Be quiet and go to sleep."

Edward flinched, remembering where he was, frightened all over again. "Yes, . . . that's probably best."

But all he did for as long as the Scarecrow watched him was sit up in his bunk, arms folded over his knees, eyes gleaming watchfully in the low light.

Author's Note: Chapters will alternate between Scarecrow's and Riddler's points of view of view. The next chapter will step back a little and describe the Riddler's encounter with Bolton. Hopefully this will keep things from being confusing. It should be ready in about a week.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: The Villain is the Victim

Author: weird_katharine

Rating: PG-13

Genera: Angst, Drama

Warning: Description of lobotomy.

Summary: The Riddler's experience during Lock Up. He and the Scarecrow talk about living in fear, and becoming the thing you always hated.

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any other recognizable characters.

"Solitary?" Edward asked when he saw Bolton was leading him to the canvas-padded isolation cell at the end of the hallway. "I haven't done anything to warrant being in here, and I'm not going to . . . ."

He fell silent as Bolton pushed him into the small room, and walked in behind him. He shut the door behind him, and then just stood there, silent and angry.

Finely Edward asked, "What exactly are we doing here?"

"You're going to shut your mouth, you smug bastard," he said, his voice low and gruff. Edward might have been frightened, but since becoming the Riddler, he had come to honestly believe that his intelligence would protect him. "You're going to keep it shut the next time one of my guards tells you to do something. You're going to learn your place."

"My place? Do you have any idea how infuriating it is to have a brainless thug tell you what to do? My place is above them."

Bolton chuckled, still sounding deceptively calm. "Smart guy, huh? Well, what if you weren't so smart?"

He reached into his back pocket and took out an old, tarnished icepick. He held it up at eye level between them, so that Edward could get a good look at it.

"I think you know what they used to do to people like you. They operated on them, so they'd behave. I think in your case, it might be worth trying."

Edward burst out into shrill, hysterical laughter that frightened him a little, because it didn't sound like him at all.

"You've got to be completely mad! They'd fire you in a second, and arrest you just as fast! They'd call you a monster."

"Maybe they would. But who knows what you monsters might do to each other? I could say I found Crane in your cell, but I didn't catch him in time. When I got there, the damage was, already done."

He grabbed Edward by the collar and slammed him up against the wall, hard enough to hurt in spite of the padding.

"You can't! You idiot, you'll probably kill me!" That was almost a relief, though. Without sterilization, without anesthetic, what were the chances he would survive?

Bolton only bared his teeth in a smile. The discolored florescent light etched out the angry lines around his mouth and eyes in shadows. He held the icepick up to Edward's face. He clamped his hand around Edwards jaw, easily pinning his head against the wall. _God, he was huge, bigger than Batman, bigger than a truck . . . ._

"You see, it doesn't matter if you're a genius, you're still a worthless animal. I own you, and I can do whatever I want with you."

Bolton's face was close enough that he could feel his hot breath, and the weapon was even closer. Suddenly dying of infection seemed like a silly optimistic day dream. He could see the rest of his life, sitting apathetically, or wandering aimlessly around Arkham, doing what he was told, because he couldn't quite grasp how to do anything else. Not understanding the past or future. Maybe not remembering who he was. The wound would heal, the black eyes would fade, but he would never be the same. No more planning, no more understanding, no more questions.

"No, please, you can't!"

Bolton didn't seem to like the word 'can't', and he pressed the point of the ice pick into the corner of Edward's eye, right against the tear duct.

He couldn't find the breath to scream, but he was making a high pitched keening noise in the back of his throat. He could feel the needle-sharp tip digging into delicate tissue, sending sharp electric pain shooting back behind his eyes and into his brain. He shut his eyes. Red orange light and gray mist pulsed across his vision.

'_This is like what the ancient Egyptians did to their dead,"_ he thought. Even in these last moments of mortal terror, he couldn't stop trivia from rising up in the back of his mind like a disembodied voice. _'They pulled the brain out through the nose, because they believed that the heart did the thinking, and the brains were more or less stuffing.'_

He felt dizzy and lightheaded, as if he was about to faint, but he had never been more awake and aware in his life, his whole being focused on the needle-sharp point that was about to destroy his mind.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . . . Please don't! You're right, you own me, I'll do anything, just don't make me live like that! I'm begging you."

Without saying a word, Bolton withdrew the pick and let Edward drop. He punched him quick and hard, again and again, in the chest and stomach, shaking him like a rag doll. Edward would barely feel it until later. He was so deep in the grip of fear that he couldn't believe, couldn't even realize that he had been released.

"That's good enough. For now."

Bolton grabbed him by the shoulder and led him staggering from the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Title: The Villain is the Victim

Author: weird_katharine

Rating: PG-13

Genera: Angst, Drama

Warning: Description of lobotomy.

Summary: The Riddler's experience during Lock Up. He and the Scarecrow talk about living in fear, and becoming the thing you always hated.

Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any other recognizable characters.

Authors Note: Just a short scene-setting chapter.

During the next few weeks, Jonathan Crane had his own problems and didn't spend much time worrying about the Riddler. He had never liked Edward; he was a pretentious fool with pathetic delusions about the power of the rational mind. Any scant pity he had was reserved for others, like Jervis, or poor Harley. Everyone in the asylum was breaking down, in their own way. He couldn't help but notice, though, that Edward in particular was heading down hill with no breaks.

The pattern of that first night repeated itself, with Edward sitting up awake until nearly dawn. He had always been a bit of a night owl, but now he was too afraid to let his guard down and relax into sleep. When Bolton saw what was happening, he set out to make it worse. He would send a guard around to search Edward's cell or just bang on the glass whenever he managed to pass out. Insomnia could be almost as effective at paralyzing the mind as fear, Crane knew. It was a simple and effective method of torture. The need for sleep could become as desperately painful as the need for food or water. It caused mood swings, inability to make decisions, and even hallucinations.

Crane saw the signs when they were all together in the dining hall, almost the only time the inmates were allowed to gather. None of them talking, all of them bruised under their cloths, all of them eating even though no one was hungry. Not finishing your meal was considered "uncooperative". Edward's eyes would suddenly dart away to look at something that wasn't there, then drift uneasily back to his tray.

Jervis, who was such a strange mix of delusion, bitter rage, and otherworldly sweetness, would sometimes reach over and awkwardly pat him on the arm. Jervis actually liked Edward, and he was a veteran when it came to things no one else could see. When such things were still allowed, the two of them used to have long, nearly incomprehensible conversations full of word-play and free association.

That was the thing about a Lamborghini-class mind, Crane mused. It just blew that much harder when you threw a wrench in the works.


End file.
